


When the Dust Clears

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Scenes from a War-Forged Courtship [19]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aeron Tabris, Aeron/Alistair, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:10:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3698618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Archdemon is dead. The Blight is over. But is the cost greater than expected?</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Dust Clears

The world goes still. The dust settles. It takes a moment to realize that, despite the ringing in his ears and the way his head dully pounds, Alistair is still alive.

“It’s over.”

He hears himself say the words but their meaning takes a moment to fully register. The fight is over. The Archdemon is dead. The Blight has ended. He has survived.

Alistair sits up very carefully and assesses his surroundings. It seems that the blast only knocked him back a few feet. His eyes water from dust and it feels like there is ash in his mouth, his body hurts in places he had no idea could even ache, but he is _alive_. He stands up on unsteady legs. Other survivors begin to appear among the ruined mess of the rooftop—Wynne and the First Enchanter, their allies among the Dwarves and the Dalish—and he is truly relieved to see them. Yet his mind immediately goes elsewhere.

“Aeron—”

Surely, she should have made her presence known by now—or, if she was incapable of moving, she would have called loud enough for them to hear? But among the voices calling out to each other, Alistair cannot single hers out. He does not see her among those still stumbling towards the entrance to the fort. Icy panic begins rising into his throat. The blast was powerful and she was at the center of it. What if—?

“Aeron! Aeron, where are you?!” Only Alistair’s dull echo answers him. “Aeron!”

Nothing. His heart begins to hammer in his chest. His breath comes and goes in shorter bursts. The others are beginning to notice. Alistair calls her name as loud as his throat will allow, not giving a single damn about how panicked he might look. The Archdemon is dead. The Blight has been stopped. Now all that matters is finding her. All that matters is ensuring that she is still alive—because she _is_. _She has to be._ Isn’t that what was promised? Why he…?

“AERON! ANSWER ME—!”

 _Maker, please—_ He turns on a heel, unsure of which way to go. _Don’t take her from me._

The gleam of metal catches his eye. Alistair doesn’t even hesitate, breaking into a full run even as others call after him. The closer he gets, the more obvious it becomes; it’s hers, it’s her armor, and she is—

“Aeron—!”

For a brief moment, relief reigns. There she is! Aeron lies partially curled up on her side, not too far from where the Archdemon lies with Starfang still embedded in its skull. Her hair is in her face. She makes no motion or sound, even as Alistair drops to his knees beside her and turns her on her back. She is lifeless—no, _unconscious_. The left side of Aeron’s face is already beginning to bruise along the cheek from the landing. Her color is a touch paler. There are scratches and scrapes on her hands. Fixable things, all of them. The wounds will heal and her color will return in time—and they _will_ have that time now.

Won’t they?

“Come on, my love, wake up, it’s over! We’ve won!” Alistair shakes her shoulder, gently. She does not stir. “Aeron? Come on, wake up—”

He brushes her hair back from her face. His fingers grace the curve of her unbruised cheek. Still nothing. Alistair shakes her again, a little more forcefully this time. He calls her name a little bit louder. His relief begins to dissolve. The fears he has held come scrabbling to the forefront of his mind.

“ _No_ —oh, no, no, no, no—Aeron, please, don’t do this—” Panic rising, he pulls at her armor, thinking that if maybe— _maybe_ —if he can just give her more room to breathe… “You can’t be—this can’t be how… _Aeron, you can’t be—wake up!_ ” Tears begin blurring his vision. “Wake up, please. Don—don’t do this to me. Don’t you dare leave me behind. Please—”

“Alistair?” It’s Wynne, approaching from behind him. “Alistair what is…? Oh no—”

“Sh-she’s just—she’s not—” He chokes on a sob. “She’s just— The Archdemon threw her. She—”

Wynne kneels down beside him, a gentle hand on his back. With that same hand, she hovers over the Elf’s mouth and nose; touches a spot underneath her jaw. Silently, he prays, begging for good news; begging for Aeron to wake, to wonder why she is being touched or why he looks so upset. Instead, the older woman’s face grows solemn. His insides turn into blocks of ice.

“No.” Alistair shakes his head. “Wynne, no, she’s not—”

The mage draws her hand away. “I’m so sorry.”

“ _Don’t tell me that—!_ She’s not.” Alistair whimpers. “She’s _alive_ —”

“It might have been the blast—”

He roughly shakes off the hand Wynne tries to rest on his shoulder again. “ _She’s alive!_ She has to be! We— Sh- _she can’t be_ —! Aeron, please—wake up. _Wake up!_ ”

And he isn’t sure _why_ or what prompts him—maybe a memory or a story of hearing it work or just plain desperation—but Alistair brings his fist down against the center of Aeron’s chest before he registers even making a fist. He calls her name, brings his fist down once more. If he can just get her heart to beat again, jolt it back into working somehow—

But she remains as still as ever. Here but no longer _here_. Gone. Lost. Never to return. What about the years they were to have together? All of that extra time? Was it just a lie after all? A trick? Was there really no way around the inevitable?  A vision of how Aeron looked in the moment right before the blast flashes to mind. Bathed in that unnatural light, she had looked at him— _directly at him_ —and she had said…what? Because she did say something, didn’t she? At the very least, she tried. What was it that she said?

Then it clicks.

_“I love you.”_

That’s what it was, only…she didn’t get to finish. She hadn’t gotten that chance before—

And now—?

“No—”

Broken, angry sounds rise out of Alistair. He gathers Aeron in his arms, trying to ignore how limp she is—how _lifeless_ she has become. The tears are hot, stinging as they roll down his face. Others are watching, but what point is there to show courage now? Alistair has no strength for that, not even for pretending. Not now. Not without her.

“Come back.” Alistair kisses her, rocks back and forth with her in his arms. “Come back to me—just… _please_ , come back, _come back…_ ”

The words are broken up by unchecked sobs. Still, he begs Aeron to wake; begs the Maker to give her back. Someone calls his name, puts their hand on his shoulder—Wynne again, perhaps? It doesn’t matter. Not if they can’t help her. Not if she is truly gone to where he can’t yet follow. And yet wasn’t Aeron always the one reminding Alistair that if he ever fell in battle, she would face down the Maker to get him back?

“I—I’m _here_ ,” he manages through his sobs, caressing her face. “I—I’m— _right here_ , Aeron. Can’t you see that? I’m right here. Just come…come back. Come back, I’m here—”

And it happens almost like a scene from the end of a storybook—instantaneously, miraculously. Aeron takes a sudden gasp of air, the sound deep and guttural. Her entire body tenses with the motion of it—back arching, hands clawing—before shaking with the coughs that follow. There is another gasp, not quite as deep; more coughing. Her eyelids flutter. They open. Her gaze fixes on Alistair’s face. And she—

_She smiles at him._

Alistair can only hold her, tearful eyes wide. His icy insides turn to quaking gel. Is this real? Has he cracked already from the grief? He looks to Wynne, to the others surrounding them; their expressions confirm, at least, that he is not seeing things. This is no hallucination. Aeron is alive—fully and truly _alive_! He looks back down at her, his love who was lost and now seems back.

“Aeron?” Alistair’s voice shakes. “If you can, say something.”

And in a hoarse voice, one he has to lean towards to hear, Aeron says, “Your Maker…h-has terrible swordsmanship.”

The words take a moment to register, burrowing as they must through what remains of Alistair’s shock, but they get through. They turn what remains of his desire to cry into shards of trembling laughter. Aeron barely has a moment of sitting up before he descends upon her with kisses. The continued witnesses be damned. He has the love of his life back, fully and completely, and here is proof irrefutable! Either through miracle or her own stubborn will, it doesn’t matter how. Not really. Only that she is _here_ , back with him— _alive_.

“You—I can’t believe you—” Alistair cradles her face and kisses her. “You kept me waiting—”

“I’m sorry—”

“You kept me _waiting_ , Aeron. Don’t—” Another kiss. He cannot stop himself if he wanted to. “Don’t ever. Not again, do you hear me? Not like that, not ever again. Don’t even _dare—_ ”

“I’m sorry,” Aeron murmurs against his lips. “I’m sorry, my love, I am—”

“I was so scared—I thought—”

“I know. I know. I didn’t mean to. Honest.” They touch brow to brow and Aeron brushes his tears. “I’m here now. I’m here.”

Yes. Here. With him. To that, Alistair can nod. To that, Alistair can even smile. With Wynne’s assistance, he helps Aeron to her feet. She wavers unsteadily, mentions feeling dizzy, but she stays upright. Her gaze drifts to where the Archdemon’s corpse lies. Aeron’s fingers weave through Alistair’s.

“It really is over, isn’t it? We’ve won?”

And he can only nod as he looks at her in wonder and renewed love. Somewhere in the crowd of survivors, a cheer goes up and spreads, rising in noise. One of the Dalish approaches with Starfang—still somewhat bloodied, the blade surely dulled from its use, but still intact—and kneels as they present it to her. A confused expression crosses Aeron’s features as she retrieves her sword. Alistair gives her hand a gentle squeeze.

“It’s you,” he tells her. “They’re cheering for you. You’re a hero now, Aeron Tabris.”

“Hero…?” Aeron shakes her head, leans against him. “Tired. That’s what I am. Tired, sore—”

“Alive.”

Alistair can’t help himself, driven still by the slowly fading fear of almost never holding her again, never touching her. But she only smiles at him and slips her free arm about his neck. As their lips meet, the cheering of the crowd seems to pick up in pitch. Any other day, it might have made Alistair blush.

It still might, but the difference is that, in the wake of things, he has learned not to care. Not if it means there will be more of this in his future.

No, his mind corrects. Not just his. _Theirs._

“I’ve had enough of this place for several lifetimes.” Aeron sheaths her sword. “Shall we get out of here?”

And Alistair nods, kissing her hand as he takes it in his again. “Together.”


End file.
